What is Behind Him
by Randomness is Bliss
Summary: An AU Bellarke Fic. Clarke stared him down. "Octavia will be protected as if she were a member of the royal family. I will not let any harm come to her. That is a promise, Guardsman Blake." Bellamy coughed out a hoarse laugh. "I learned a long time ago not to trust promises from royalty." Cover credit to blameitonthebbcbaby on tumblr
1. Chapter 1

_"The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him." _G.K. Chesterton

* * *

Air blew in from the cracked window, and Clarke set down her paintbrush. As she looked outside, she again wondered why her mother and her father's Lieutenant, Viceroy Jaha felt it a good idea to keep her sequestered away in this tower. If she really wanted to cause harm to herself, couldn't she just break the leaded pane, leap out of the tower and into the grassy bailey below? It would be all too simple. The glass wasn't barred and more than wide enough for a slender girl like herself to slip through. Not that Clarke wanted to hurt herself. Not anymore. That's what she kept trying to tell her mother now that she was speaking again. Months had passed since her father died, and Clarke knew the guard she'd attacked was healed now—aside from the scars. She was certain the "it's for your own safety" Queen Abby kept spouting really meant "it's for our safety." She hardly saw the point in keeping the 'Killer Princess' locked up anymore.

She turned back to the easel, looking at the landscape she had created practically without thinking. It was a riverbank in the woods where her father had taken her adventuring when she was ten. Clarke reached her fingers out, as if she could again find the injured rabbit, and nurse it back to health with the help of her mother. Looking back at it, she could almost imagine her father was still here, about to take her on another adventure...

"My lady?" A knock at the door.

"Come in, Glass," Clarke sighed, setting down her paintbrush in a jar of water. She smoothed her skirts and moved an errant strand of hair behind her ear. No matter what, she had to keep on her best behavior. Every servant reported back to the Queen.

Glass entered the room like a dormouse, small, brown, and piteously quiet. Clarke had the sneaking suspicion they assigned her introverted servants in the hope that maybe the Princess herself would become more timid.

"My lady, I just came to announce your mother. Queen Abby wishes to speak with you," Glass said, brown eyes to the floor.

Clarke would rather do anything in the world than talk with the Queen, but she couldn't say that. Her mother hadn't deigned to see her more than once or twice during her entire incarceration. Maybe today was the day she would be let out. Or hanged for her crimes. Did they hang princesses? Was assaulting a Guard grounds for being hanged? Clarke didn't know. Regardless, there was only one correct answer.

"Bring her in, please, Glass," Clarke said. Glass nodded and began to back out of the room, but not before she looked up and parted the curtain of muddy hair in front of her pale face.

"My lady, if I may be so bold?" she said.

"Please, speak freely," Clarke said. She hated that her maids felt to need to be scared of her.

Glass looked as if she was about to crack a smile, and said. "Before the Queen enters, you may wish to wipe away the streak of red paint on your cheek, my lady."

Clarke laughed and found her facecloth. "Thank you, Glass. I may be crazy, but I certainly hope I don't look it."

This time, the small girl did smile. "Never, my lady."

The door shut this time and Clarke looked in her mirror to wipe the red paint on her cheek. She hardly remembered using red, let alone getting so messy with it. Once she was certain she looked presentable for the Queen, she folded the cloth neatly and placed it next to the washbasin.

A knock sounded at the door, but the Queen didn't wait to be acknowledged. Queen Abigail Griffin looked as she always did: hair thrown back into a hasty braid, but face clear and dress immaculate. She had just gotten back from the healers. Abby's high cheekbones were flushed and Clarke could smell the lemongrass her mother chewed while helping the sick. When she wasn't too busy with politics, the Queen enjoyed working in the infirmary.

"Clarke," Queen Abby said, and swept her daughter into a bone-crushing hug. "How are you?"

"Locked in a tower," Clarke responded, returning the hug as little as could be counted as "hugging back".

Abby's full mouth turned down into a frown. "Well, I have news on that front, Clarke."

Clarke and Abby sat on opposite ends of Clarke's cushioned settee. The Queen reached for Clarke's hand, and she had a hard time not drawing away. This was the woman who had locked her in a tower after all. "What is it?"

"I was talking with Viceroy Jaha and Commander Kane and we've decided that you're okay to move back into the keep. The maids have said you've been nothing but calm, I mean, look at all the painting you've gotten done," the Queen said with a wide smile. Clarke took a moment to glance around the room, hardly remembering doing so many. Memories from her past were arrayed against the stones. The throne room for her coming out ball, walls arrayed in blue, green, and gold. A small girl she had met in the slums with the most gorgeous golden eyes. Wells and her playing next to a small pond. They were all there. Good memories and bad. The familiar scenes helped when she awoke screaming and recognized nothing in the small circular room which held none of _her_ things, only a canopied bed, a small settee, and a writing desk. Her easel had been brought up later. The paintings brought her some kind of solace, albeit small.

"There's not much else to do, mother, unless one enjoys throwing themselves out of windows," Clarke said, twisting up her fingers in the fabric of her skirts.

"Clarke," her mother scolded, voice dropping.

"Kidding, mother. I'm only joking with you," Clarke said, unclenching her fingers and forcing a smile at the Queen.

Abby sighed and nodded. "Yes, well. Please try to not 'kid' like that around Commander Kane. He took some convincing to let you out this early at all."

"If I promise, does that mean I can go back to my own rooms?" Clarke said, hating how yearning and hopeful her voice sounded. Clarke was stronger than this. She needed no one but herself. Not her mother, not her father, and _especially_ not Wells. Not after what he did.

"You don't even need to promise, you're free to go," Queen Abby said, standing and gesturing to the door. Without another word, Clarke was running down the spiral staircase, not even caring about slipping.

"I'll have your paintings sent to your chambers," the Queen called after her. It had been four months since she had left that small tower room, and she was excited to be free. Guardsmen stared as she moved quickly through the halls, she paused every so often, smiling and nodding at some. She didn't hate guards. Didn't even hate the one she hurt, and she didn't want to get that kind of reputation. Clarke was a healer, not a fighter.

When Clarke threw open the door at the bottom of the tower and entered the inner bailey she had to shield her eyes. The sun was high in the sky, alighting on the green grass and the dirt where the guardsmen trained. A dozen or so trained with bows and arrows three hundred yards from her, but she left them be. She was so happy to be free she was nearly crying, and having a confrontation with the guards wouldn't help. Everything smelled fresh and clean compared to the musty air of the tower, and Clarke was nearly skipping as she made her way to the doors of the main keep.

She had just closed her eyes and taken a deep breath when she felt someone grab her arm.

"Princess Clarke," A deep voice said stoically. She looked up into the lined face of Commander Marcus Kane.

"Commander Kane," Clarke said, feeling the need to curtsy despite her higher status. "How lovely to see you."

"And the same to you, Princess. I see Queen Abby has already gotten to you," he said, back straight, arms crossed behind his back, uniform crisp and creased in all the right places. "Lovely" didn't seem to be a word in his vocabulary.

"I suppose thanks are in order for that, Commander," Clarke said smiling. She wanted to be off, not dawdling talking to a man she didn't even like. But societal expectations still stood.

"Yes, well," He looked down his nose at her. "Don't let me think it was a mistake."

Clarke pretended she hadn't taken that as an offense. "Of course. Where are you off to?"

"There's a newly sworn group of Cadets with whom I need to talk. I must be going. We'll talk later, Princess, about what you've done." he said, gave a half bow, and walked quickly toward the gate and the outer bailey.

Commander Kane was still the brusque, no-nonsense man he'd always been. Kane always went with the letter of the law, leaving Viceroy Jaha and King Jake to try and pull the humanity out of him. Clarke sighed and opened the door into the inner keep.

The ceilings were high, cavernous even, and the air smelled of floral perfume and baking bread. Tapestries with the royal seal donned the walls at evenly spaced increments, interspersed with unlit torches that burned throughout the nights. Clarke passed door after door while making her way to the royal quarters. Even here, the guards posted at every corner still wouldn't make eye contact with her. Frankly, it was getting ridiculous now. She was just a girl, and weren't they the ones supposed to be protecting _her?_

Just as she was making the final turn that would lead to her chambers, she ran smack into a young guardsman. A young, _attractive_ guardsman. The guard was a little taller than herself, with wavy brown hair that was only a touch too long for regulation and laughing brown eyes. He filled out the uniform nicely, navy velvet doublet overtop brown woolen breeches with a surcoat emblazoned with the Griffin family coat-of-arms, sword strapped around his narrow waist.

"Sorry, m'lady, didn't mean to run into you there," His every syllable flirted, mischievous smile across his face.

"It is quite alright. I should've been paying more attention, Guard?"

"Collins. Finn Collins, m'lady," He said with a smile. "I mean, my princess."

"Well, thank you for catching me before I fell, Guard Collins," Clarke said. "But you don't need to stay. The Killer Princess is on the loose."

She thought she heard his say, "She is, isn't she?" but Clarke was later certain she'd imagined it. "It is all in a day's work, my princess. Would you like me to see you to your chambers?"

"I'll be fine. Have a nice evening," Clarke said. Finn bowed loosely and continued along the hallway.

It was nice to know not every guard was afraid of touching her. But she needed to put the cute guardsman out of her mind. She had other things to do.

With a few more steps, she was back in her room. The bed covers were folded back, new flower arrangement on her vanity. But Clarke didn't pause to admire them, this was only a stop on the way. The tower had been a pleasant prison, but a prison nonetheless. There was nothing more she wanted to do than to rid herself of the feeling of being kept and to get out into the world and see her people. Clarke grabbed her cloak, pulled out the pins from her chignon and moved toward the kitchens. A trip into the heart of Coeur d'Arc was long overdue.

The first stop was the kitchens, where she greeted the chef, who was as stern yet cordial as he'd always been. Apparently he hadn't heard about her outburst, or had and didn't care. Regardless, he freely gave the few loaves of bread, round of cheese and apples she'd asked for. Clarke wished she could carry more. She had been gone a long time, and Clarke knew there was more she wished to do, but she had days and days. Best to get out there now instead of spending time gathering supplies. Chef gave her a knowing smile and ushered her out the door. She nodded her thanks, flashing him a grin. Once the door closed in the kitchens, Clarke twisted and turned through a few other halls before she snuck behind a dusty old tapestry and into the tunnel it hid.

Hours passed as Clarke snuck through the slums of Coeur d'Arc. She loved nothing more than this, not even painting. Here, she wasn't Princess Clarke, with all the responsibilities that came with the title, she was just the kindly Giver, who was there to help those who needed it, no questions asked. Clarke savored every moment of it.

No one there knew who she really was, she made sure of that. Clarke wasn't stupid, and she knew if anyone in the slums found out that the Giver was really Princess Clarke, she'd be held for ransom faster than you could say "Killer Princess." She didn't blame them for that. Everyone wanted safety and full bellies, and money could buy them that. Clarke just didn't enjoy the thought of being ransomed. So she donned a cloak, let her hair down, rubbed dirt into her dresses

She passed out the bread, cheese, and apples, smiling all the while. The youngest children were always happy to see her, their malnourished bellies all they were really worried about. Their eyes were still bright, then, full of hope. When they saw her, they would jump up and give hugs. Clarke didn't mind the sour smell of their unwashed bodies or the dirt they got in her hair. How could you be angry with a laughing child in your arms?

The older kids were harder. The light in their eyes had long since gone out. Some wouldn't even accept handouts, their pride stronger than the ache in their stomachs. Most of the adults were too drunk to eve know they needed help. These were the ones who made her saddest. Clarke saw more injuries than she cared to admit. Cuts from knife fights that had festered and oozed yellow pus and bruises, broken noses, and split lips were all too common. The flu had also broken out and many homes were covered in vomit and diarrhea. One small boy, named Fillmore, Filly for short, had fallen off a wall and had broken his leg. The bone poked through the skin and Clarke knew this was beyond her expertise. She toyed with the idea of sneaking him into the castle infirmary, but wasn't sure of what she could really do.

When Clarke finally looked to the sky, she saw the sun had sunk low. Her mother would be expecting her back. Tomorrow, she swore, she'd be back with bandages and poultices, real medicine, things she could help the sick with. Bread and cheese alone did not a healthy life make. Her supplies were gone too soon, but she knew she needed to be sneaking back to the castle. Despite her newfound freedom, the Queen would be looking for her, if only to discuss what had happened to King Jake, and what she as a Princess needed to do in the wake of the disaster. Basically, everything Clarke wanted to avoid.

Clarke stole through the town, slipping through back alleyways until she got to the entrance of the tunnel she regularly used, a trapdoor in the floor of a blacksmith's shop called _Little Bird_, run by a slim girl with the soul of a lion called Raven. Raven didn't acknowledge Clarke except for a smile and a knowing nod while she distracted the patrons up front. The Princess was thankful Raven still was in on their deal despite Clarke's weeks locked away. Sneaking in and out would be much harder without her help.

The tunnel Clarke used to sneak back in was much dirtier in the one she used to sneak out. But at this hour, servants would be rushing back and forth through that hallway, and getting caught the first time had been enough for Clarke. It was only later she had found this lesser used tunnel. It was dank and nearly black as pitch, but Clarke knew her way well enough that she was able to avoid most of the holes and puddles in the floor. It led up into the inner keep's prison and was far enough out of the way that she'd never been caught. Water dripped from the ceiling when Clarke knew she was crossing underneath the moat and before long, she was cracking the gate at the end of the tunnel and peeking her head out into the prison. The posted guard was drunk as usual, snoozing soundly in the far corner, head tilted back and drool dripping from his chin. She knew from experience that his sleep was deeper than the dead. Clarke had long since lost her fear that he was going to catch her one of these days. She flipped back her hood and stepped quickly across the dirty rushes on the floor, ignoring calls for help from the cells. The keening for a reprieve, of a "please m'lady, I didn't do it," was near constant. Prisoners might recognize the princess, but more often than not, they assumed an unshackled woman in the prison was just a passing maiden fair, someone who might be paid off to help. The last cell, furthest from the guard, was silent. This strange silence was enough to give Clarke pause. Much to her chagrin, the cells were always at capacity, and no one wanted a rotting corpse beneath the castle.

But the inhabitant of the cell wasn't a corpse, it was a girl. She was perhaps sixteen, seventeen maybe, with long dark hair that hung lankly down her back. Her wide brown eyes seemed at once both scared and defiant, and she curled in on herself in a way that seemed nearly innate, as if she'd been used to keeping herself small her entire life. Without thinking, Clarke acted on a whim.

"What's your name?" Clarke said, stepping up to the bars.

The girl opened her mouth, then shut it, as if deciding it wouldn't be a good idea.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Clarke said. "Please, just tell me your name."

She swallowed. "Octavia. My name is Octavia Blake."

"Well Octavia," Clarke said, "What are you in here for?"

Octavia looked over at the guard as if he was listening. The other prisoners had kept up their racket though, and he was still dead asleep.

"You're not going to get in more trouble, I promise." Clarke crouched, trying to make herself as non-threatening as possible. The people from the slums of Coeur d'Arc were often mistrustful by nature.

"Stealing," Octavia said after a few more moments. "I stole some bread and medicine for some other kids. They were starving, and I just—"

"Wanted to help, I understand." Clarke stood and brushed some straw from her knees. Maybe there was something to talk to her mother about after all. Normally only murderers and rapists were kept in the cells beneath the keep. Detaining children, petty thieves no less, down here was just plain wrong. Lesser criminals were kept in cells closer to the heart of the city, in wooden cells with regular meals and cleaner floors. It still was no holiday, but it was far more humane than this. "It was nice meeting you, Octavia. Hopefully I'll see you again."

"Doubt it," Octavia said, voice filled with the despair.

Clarke didn't respond, just dug in her cloak seeing if she could find anything left from her visit to the slums. She found a single apple and set it on a cleaner section of Octavia's cell. Before Octavia could say anything, Clarke gave a wobbly smile and continued to her room. Queen Abby and Viceroy Jaha were going to get an earful from her after all, and she'd be damned if she didn't look like a Princess while she did it.

* * *

Bellamy Blake was damned if he was going to let his little sister rot in that hellhole any longer than need be. It had already been a week since she'd been caught stealing from the fattest, most repugnant of the merchants in the town square and Bellamy was itching to punch the bastard...again. He didn't need to call the Guard on her. Most wouldn't. But this idiot was so aghast that a 'slum rat' would steal from him that he called down the Provost and had her sent to the keep. Bellamy had served him his due. The children in the slums around Bellamy were a little fatter than before, and the merchant himself had gained a more than a few new scrapes. What wonders a cloak and a well-placed punch could do.

But that justice didn't get his sister out of the keep's cells, so here he was at the crack of dawn with a bunch of do-gooding idiots after joining the castle guard just so he could sneak in and get his sister. A hundred or so men and teenaged boys stood in loose lines in the outer bailey of the Castle. It was the first they'd been let in the walls at all. The barracks were across the shit-filled moat and the track they would train on was outside the outer bailey. They weren't worthy to be in front of the keep in the inner bailey. Not yet at least. They were merely cadets, not guardsmen and only guardsmen had access to the keep—and the prison.

Some privileged, pompous toad stood on a box at the front rattling on to them about duties and training and oaths they swore to the crown. Bellamy tried to drown him out. He was just so damned tired. Couldn't they at least sleep until the sun was up? Someone had told him to be happy to be up this early. In the afternoons, the wind would waft the scent of the moat over to them. Apparently all Cadets ended up smelling of human shit and rotten food. There was nothing good to focus on here, least of all his oath or the "duties of the job" the rich guy was talking about. Bellamy may have said the oath with everyone else, but no way in hell would he be serving the crown. He would serve himself and his sister. Everyone else could do whatever the hell they wanted.

After much too long a time, the idiot finally stepped down and let himself through the gate and into the inner bailey.

"Can you believe it? That was _Commander Kane_. He actually talked to us," one of the younger guys said beside Bellamy, voice filled with awe. Bellamy didn't even deign to respond, just followed the herd for more training. This whole ordeal might be the worst thing he'd ever suffered through, but if it got him and Octavia out of here for good, and gave him more to deal with the world that only wanted to hurt them, he would do it.

After running nearly ten miles, Bellamy felt like collapsing. Lungs still heaving, he wiped at his forehead with a gritty hand looking up at the high outer curtain wall. The sun was setting quickly and he hoped that meant they would be able to go back to the barracks on the other side of the moat and sleep. He never wished to be that familiar with the track just outside the bailey ever again. Sweat soaked every article of clothing making them chafe under his arms and between his legs, and his shoes were rubbing his toes raw. He blinked rapidly, trying to get the sting of the salt to go away, but he felt too tired doing even that. Hell, his legs shook even trying to stand. Bellamy thought he was strong, stronger than most anyway, despite him giving up most of his food to Octavia whenever she was hungry. He'd never been proven so wrong in his life. When he joined the Guard, he thought it would take him a few days at most to slip away into the keep and break his sister out, but so far, he hadn't even had the opportunity to take a breather, let alone the hours he would need to do that kind of sneaking around. From dawn until dusk, they ran, did strength exercises, trained with swords, bows, daggers, and spears just outside the castle walls. Bellamy had thought they'd be let into the inner bailey by now, after nearly a week, but he hadn't even gotten a glimpse of the inner curtain wall. He heard from one of the trainers that further on, you could go on to tactics classes within the keep if they thought you were good enough, maybe even be promoted to a Captain.

"Why would anyone want to do that kind of extra work?" Bellamy said, mostly to himself.

The trainer had looked at Bellamy and pointed at him with the spear he had been demonstrating a move with. "With hard work comes reward, boy. That's what we're trying to teach you here. When you're a Captain, you're not just put up in the castle, your whole family could stay. The crown pays loyal servants well."

Bellamy perked up at that thought. While he mistrusted anything even having to do with the King or Queen—just the Queen now, and the Viceroy, since the King died, no Princess to deal with either since she went crazy—the thought of having Octavia safe within the walls of the castle warmed him to the core. He would do what it took to be Captain, then, suffer through all of the training it took. Breaking Octavia out of prison for a life on the run was one thing, but getting her a permanent place in the castle? Being a captain meant having a spot where he could have power to change things. Maybe if he was captain, he could get the monarchs to realize how they treated their own people like shit. Few across Coeur d'Arc though highly of the King and Queen, and he'd heard more than one group of drunks talking of a coux. If he was on top, he could either change things for the good, or help the drunks with what they wanted. Bellamy could hardly contain his excitement as he neatly impaled the straw-stuffed dummy in front of him.

* * *

**A/N: Hopefully you guys enjoyed this first chapter! This story is going to be a slow burn (but hopefully worth it) but don't worry, it is most assuredly Bellarke. Please let me know what you thought, as I found finding Bellamy's voice was especially hard. Thanks to my beta Fish Wishes for looking over this!**

**I should be updating this once a week (I already have the first three chapters written) and I have everything already plotted out.**

**Thanks for reading!**

**Bliss**


	2. Chapter 2

Clarke stood at the foot of the raised dais on which her mother and Viceroy Jaha sat. She had never felt comfortable in the throne room. Not even when both of her parents were alive. The hall was a long rectangle with tall, carved stone pillars supporting a high, pitched ceiling. Gryphons were rearing on assorted tapestries, all facing the dais where the plush, oversized thrones sat. Now, with her father dead, his best friend and right-hand-man taking his place, Clarke felt even tinier within the great hall.

It was as if things were _meant_ to be oversized. The thrones were too large for the Viceroy and the Queen by half, gilded backs rising above their heads. She couldn't help but think that the Viceroy had no right to be sitting in her father's chair, and Queen Abby had never been entirely comfortable at the end of the hall high above her people. Nevertheless, here Clarke stood, entreating herself to them.

The Viceroy kept squeezing the armrests of the cherry wood throne, knuckles going white, then relaxing. His face was schooled into a concerned, yet kind expression, eyebrows low over his beseeching brown eyes, mouth turning down at the edges. Queen Abby was fidgeting too, slippered feet tapping and her hands smoothing her skirt. She kept trying to meet Clarke's eyes. She was glad this arrangement was as strange for them as it was for her.

Clarke took a breath and finally dared to speak. "I asked to meet you both here because an urgent issue needs to be addressed. You cannot keep a petty thief in the cells beneath the keep, never mind a young girl. This is a waste of resources at best and pure idiocy at worst," Clarke stared straight into Jaha's eyes. She hated looking up at him. He should be standing on the floor, like her, on her father's left hand. Now he warmed the King's chair in the interim. It all felt so wrong.

What was even worse was the pity in the Viceroy's eyes as he looked down on her. "Clarke, the man she stole from is a scion of the head of the Merchant's guild, Nigel. She is a very powerful woman and holds a lot of sway in the slums. She wanted this girl locked up, so we locked her up, lest there be harsher consequences."

"I understand the situation, Viceroy, but don't you think it's cruel to keep her in the worsts conditions, down there with rapists and killers?" Clarke said, putting on her kind princess face, the one that said she wasn't crazy anymore and was only thinking of the welfare of her people.

"Clarke, what do you propose we do? The other, lesser holding cells are full already, or else we would've put her there," Queen Abby said.

_Well you could try arresting fewer innocent people_ Clarke wanted to say. But what could she do? The girl apparently needed to stay incarcerated, but her conscience couldn't keep a young girl underneath the keep. Just then, a crazy thought came into her head. "You could release her into my service," she said.

Viceroy Jaha was surprised, to say the least, his eyebrows were nearly into his hairline. Her mother though, took it in stride.

"What do you mean, Clarke?"

"All the ladies' maids you have assigned to me have been dreadfully boring. They're so quiet and will hardly talk to me because of their fear. I want a proper maid, one that I can talk to and can serve me rightly. I feel this girl could do just that. Release her into my service and she can serve the rest of her sentence in the castle with me. We'll both get re-acclimated to freedom," Clarke said, speaking slowly and plainly so there would be no misunderstandings.

Both the queen and Jaha were quiet for a moment, looking at each other as if having a conversation using only their eyes. Finally, Abby nodded and the Viceroy looked to Clarke.

"I don't see why not, Clarke. But there are going to be some terms. The girl—"

"Her name is Octavia," Clarke said. She had grown tired of her mother and the Viceroy just calling her 'that girl' as if she was hardly even a person.

The Viceroy gave a small, kind smile. "Octavia, then, must remain by your side at all times until we have deemed her trustworthy enough to not try to leave."

"Of course," Clarke said.

"There's more," Jaha continued. "She will remain in your chambers at night and will be screened in the morning and at night for any weapons or stolen items. If she is found with any contraband, she will be taken immediately back into the keep's prison. These are the conditions. Do you accept them?"

"I do," Clarke kept feeling like there would be a catch, but the Viceroy didn't say anything more.

Abby then stood and moved down to where Clarke was, advancing quickly down the steps. She held her arms out, as if expecting Clarke to step in and accept the hug. "This is for your own good, too, Clarke. You need a friend. Just please, don't drag this girl down with you."

Clarke took a step back. "I won't be dragging anyone down anywhere, least of all Octavia."

Abby nodded, hurt flashing across her face when Clarke backed away. "We will dispatch someone to prepare your chambers for your new guest immediately."

"Thank you, mother. Viceroy," Clarke curtsied and exited the throne room. This was not the best thing that could have happened, but she could handle this. Having a girl hovering around her every second of every day was going to take some getting used to, especially given that Clarke had spent so long by herself, locked high up in her tower. Not to mention the animosity most children of the slums harbored for the royal family. Octavia might not have recognized Clarke, but she most definitely would when they met again. Clarke hoped Octavia would get to know her before passing judgment. She wasn't a bad person, not really, but she'd have to talk with Octavia about respecting authority figures, at least in public. Keeping herself out of that cell should be motivation enough for Octavia.

With that decided, Clarke pushed the issue of Octavia out of her mind. That would be dealt with when Octavia moved into her room. Knowing the speed at which most royal decrees were carried out, Clarke wasn't expecting the girl until the next evening at the earliest. Recognizing this, Clarke felt alone as she walked back to her chambers. It was as if everything had crumbled since her father's death. Everywhere seemed quieter, lonelier. Tapestries seemed to have become dustier, less vibrant than before. The halls seemed dark despite the hour, sunlight glancing in from steep angles through the windows. She passed few guards, most of them still avoiding her.

_I'm not going to hurt you_, she wanted to yell at them. _And he didn't even lose his eyes! They were only scratches_. Clarke knew her nickname among the Guard was "Killer Princess" and a few smiles here and there wasn't going to change that. Their iciness would pass in time. It had to. She was their princess, they were sworn to protect her.

She hoped it would pass.

Every time someone turned from her, walking the other way thinking she wouldn't notice was like a knife to her heart, reminding her of what had happened. The months in the tower had not dimmed her memory.

It had been during dinner, a small affair for the royal family. Clarke had been sitting beside her father, smiling, happy, laughing. Abby had been holding the King's hand, their fingers twined together. The Viceroy and his son, Clarke's best friend, Wells had been sitting at the other end of the table, as well as Commander Kane. It was supposedly a council dinner, meant for business talk, but had quickly dissolved into a thing of only funny stories and good food. There were two guards in the great hall compared to the regular dozen they kept on hand. Clarke had felt safe, happy. Everything had been idyllic. Wells had passed King Jake the jug of wine. Jake laughed at something the Viceroy said and took a sip. Seconds later he started coughing and didn't stop.

"Are you alright?" Abby had asked, and Clarke wiped tears of laughter from her eyes to glance at her parents.

"I'm fine, just have something in my throat," the King said between coughs. But when blood spattered his white handkerchief, everyone knew something was wrong. It all went so quickly from there. The King gasped for breath as he drowned in his own blood, it sprayed everywhere as Abby had tried to use whatever limited medical knowledge she had to help him while the servants sprinted for the medic, but by the time he got there, it was too late. The King lay dead at the head of the table and the room was silent. One of the guards had walked to the King's side to take him to the medic's to clean the body and prepare it for burial. Clarke hadn't been thinking then, just saw the threat to her father and acted. She leapt on him like an animal, clawing at his face trying to keep him away. It had taken the other guard, the Viceroy, and Wells to drag her off of him, and she was taken quickly away. She screamed the whole time, she was told. After the screaming came silence. That was the start of her stay in the tower and Clarke sat still as a statue in her stone prison. Her father was dead. What else mattered?

Later, poison had been found on Well's person. The trial went quickly and Wells was sentenced to life in prison instead of the noose. There were some perks to being the Viceroy's son. But after that day, Clarke had been left fatherless, friendless, and locked in a tower with only memories of the King's blood spewing from his mouth and onto the table in front of her to occupy her time.

Who could blame her for being morose, quiet, and generally angry? Her mother and the Guard could, apparently. But Clarke hoped that having Octavia around her would help both of them.

Her melancholy disposition seemed to be a permanent fixture, now. All she looked forward to the rest of the evening was drawing a bath and going to sleep in her own bed.

Clarke opened the door to her room and nearly screamed. Octavia was already there sitting on a wingback chair in her solar. She had been cleaned thoroughly and Clarke could see how pretty she was. Her cheekbones were high and her eyes bright, her dark brown hair was shinier now, though still tangled. It looked as if she had been given a round meal, and she wore a blue muslin dress and apron.

"What did you do?" Octavia asked, hands folded in her lap. Her voice sounded defiant, her posture straight despite the smooth detachedness of her face.

"I got you out of there," Clarke said simply, sitting in a couch across from her.

"I never asked that of you, Princess," Octavia said. The word 'Princess' sounded venomous coming from her mouth.

"I know. You didn't have to," Clarke said. "Have you been informed as to your situation here?"

"All I was told was that I needed to take a bath, put on this dress, and meet Princess Clarke in her solar," Octavia said. "Imagine my surprise when it turned out to be you."

"Well then, let me explain to you. You robbed the wrong person. That merchant works for Nigel," Octavia sucked in a breath at the name. "And she was calling for you to be kept. The Queen and the Viceroy claimed they had no choice."

Octavia obviously knew who Nigel was, and had the good sense to look afraid if only for half a second, despite that, the fear quickly passed. "So since I stole from Nigel, I was kept with murderers?" She was indignant, and began to rise from her chair.

"It wasn't fair or just," Clarke said, reaching for her hand to urge her back down. "I tried to get them to release you. But they wouldn't. So I did what I could. Now you're in my service. You will be my ladies' maid, and will attend me personally and serve out the rest of your sentence here. Each day you will be fed, clothed, and kept clean and warm. You will sleep in my chambers and will be searched in the morning and at night for contraband. If you break the rules, you will be sent back. These are the terms, do you accept them?"

Octavia sighed and closed her eyes. "Do I have a choice?"

"No."

"Well at least this prison isn't covered in shit," Octavia stood, then moments later realized what she had said. Her whole face went white and her eyes widened. Brashness and a devil-may-care attitude only went so far. "Princess Clarke, I'm so sor—"

Clarke couldn't help but laugh. "Don't be sorry. Please. It's been a long time since someone was that candid with me. It's refreshing."

Octavia just blushed and looked down.

"Please, oh please don't let that fire in you have gone out that quickly," Clarke said. "Half the reason I was able to get you assigned to me was because all my other ladies' maids were terribly boring. Please don't be boring."

Octavia looked up, a slow smile breaking over her face. "I'll try my best Princess."

"Good," Clarke grinned and grabbed Octavia's hand to lead her to the inner chambers. "Now come along, let's get you acclimated to the room and where you'll be sleeping."

"Hopefully in a separate bed, m'lady," Octavia said

Clarke laughed so loudly she couldn't believe the guards didn't come running. "That is exactly what I am talking about, Octavia. And please, enough with the m'lady's and princesses. I've seen you locked in prison and covered in shit and you've seen me sneaking around where I'm not supposed to be. It's just Clarke."

Maybe the act of a Princess swearing was so appalling to both of them, but the girls dissolved into a fit of giggles. When Octavia recovered enough to speak, she said, "Alright, Clarke. Let's go." So they went.

* * *

Bellamy was entering the second week of his guard training and he had finally settled into a routine. Mornings began early in the barracks, bells ringing at the crack of dawn. Hearing them the hundred or so cadets jumped quickly out of their beds and into their uniforms. Then, they proceeded to the kitchens where they were given a quick meal consisting of a hunk of hard bread and harder cheese and a piece of fruit if they were lucky. After breakfast, it was off to conditioning for the remainder of the morning. Running miles was torturous, but every day it was becoming just a little bit easier. The dirt track around the outer curtain wall was becoming as familiar to Bellamy as his own hands. He forced himself to stay at the head of the pack no matter how much his legs ached or his eyes stung. When they looped around to the front gate, completing the circle, he would take note of the people entering the outer bailey. Most were supply trains, bringing food, cloth, and other sundries into the castle. Less often, it was a nobleman coming to pay their respects to the Queen after the tragedy. Bellamy wasn't certain these things would be vitally important, but every piece of information he garnered gave him an opportunity about how he could sneak things in, and maybe some_one_ out of the castle. It also helped take his mind of the glaring pain that radiated from his shins every time he took a step.

After running, they built up their muscles. The very act of lifting weights seemed ridiculous to him, though. Why waste your time moving hunks of iron, lifting them up and down and up again, when the same exertion could come from doing actual work? They could be fortifying the walls, forging new swords, digging ditches, or building houses for the homeless children in the slums. Everyone knew their kingdom had no standing army to speak of, just the Castle Guard, and they only served in Coeur d'Arc regularly, and sent people out to the farther towns when necessary. When Bellamy worked cleaning taverns, he had heard more than one man talk of attacks on the borders from neighboring kingdoms, threatening to attack and take over the young nation. Yet the King and Queen did nothing about it. They continued on with their lives and trained their cadets and had them lift dumbbells instead of hammers.

But he did it all without complaint, trying to be the most obedient, complacent, and hard-working cadet there. He was going to look like Captain material, damn it. Every so often, he would get a nod from the Guards training them. Once, Lieutenant Shumway had even patted him on the shoulder after Bellamy had lifted the most, again. It made him sick to his stomach marching to their tune, but at least he was getting strong from it.

After conditioning came lunch, and all the cadets shuffled into the kitchens of the barrack where they actually got something hot to eat before heading out for weapons practice. T barracks were a cluster of low, wooden buildings with rough-hewn beams and old, cracked tables and chairs. Dirt was packed into the floors and Bellamy wasn't entirely sure if there was a stone foundation beneath the filth or not. The kitchens were like any, with a large stone hearth where an enormous cauldron of stew bubbled, cabinets with dishes, various foodstuffs hanging from the ceiling and a basin for washing dishes. An old Guard named Kit had been made the chef and stood watch over the kitchens, preparing their meals. During lunch, he stared out over them all, never talking, but stirred the cauldron every so often. If you got in good with the old guy, he would give you extra. Bellamy had made sure to get in good with him. The stew was one thing that was actually decent here. Kit ladled it into large wooden bowls and the stew was thick with stringy beef, carrots, potatoes, turnips, and brown gravy.

Normally, Bellamy kept his head down, smiled at Kit and made a joke. Then he slid into a table by himself, inhaled his stew, and moved out to the yard to be ready for weapons practice. But as time went, more and more of the boys flocked to him. They asked him questions, made conversation. He ignored them for the first few days, but then he thought they might be _his_ guardsmen one day, so he might as well make nice.

"So what did you think of that Guard running with us today, Bellamy? He was so slow, even _Murphy_ was passing him," Another cadet named Miller said. Miller had tanned skin from working in fields for most of his life. His head was shaved and he had a temper nearly quicker than Bellamy's own.

"Hey, shut up," Murphy said. Murphy was shorter with greasy looking brown hair that flopped over his too-long forehead and closely spaced eyes. For days he had been struggling with every single move and exercise, but had doggedly kept at it. He was slow, but never stopped for breathers. Bellamy had to admire his determination, plus, he laughed at every snide comment Bellamy made under his breath

"I think he should give up training and go back to where he came from," Bellamy said, spooning up a mouthful of stew. "He obviously isn't in his prime anymore."

"I'll bet he was one of those guys that got caught brawling in the tavern one too many times, and the Provost said it was the Guard or the prison," Miller said, laughing.

"No Miller, that was just you," Murphy sneered.

"You know I'm here for stealing," Miller said, and held up his hands. "I've got sticky fingers, see."

"Yeah, sticky, but not sneaky, Miller," Bellamy said, grinning. Sometimes they weren't wholly insufferable.

"Hey, I'm just a petty thief, not a murderer like some weasel-faced malcontent here," Miller said, taking a swig of his ale.

Murphy clenched his spoon tightly. 'They never proved anything."

"Sure they didn't," Miller said. He turned to Bellamy. "Blake, you never told us what you did to be forced into the Guard."

"Wasn't forced," Bellamy said. He didn't really want to have to explain himself to them, but he wasn't sure how to say he wasn't some goody two-shoes either.

"Wait, so you're one of those idiots that actually wants to 'serve and protect the realm,'" Murphy said with a pretty good imitation of Commander Kane's voice.

"Let's just say there are people that I am protecting and keep it to that." Bellamy swallowed hard and stood. They were going to be late for weapons training if they weren't careful.

"Wait—," Miller began but Bellamy held out his hand.

"I told you, no more, okay Miller?" Miller nodded. Bellamy needed to make sure they knew their place. They weren't friends, just people Bellamy might have need of later. Their little motley group shuffled to wash their bowls in the basin of water and put them back in the cabinets. You had extra cleaning duty after training if you didn't take care of your dishes. A small, pretty faced boy named Roma had learned this the hard way when he had left his dish for the cadet's cook to clean. His face had flamed as red as his hair when he had been reprimanded and punished in front of all the rest of the cadets.

Weapons training was one thing Bellamy actually enjoyed here. He sparred against the other cadets and took a lot of joy in kicking their asses. His favorite was the sword and he couldn't wait to a hold a real one instead dull-edged one they practiced with. Bellamy was decent with the bow and arrow, too, but the trainer had looked Bellamy up and down after the third day and said he shouldn't waste his time, that men like Bellamy should learn the art of sword craft and keep archery for the weak-muscled cowards. Bellamy hated that he had felt a rush of pride when the Guard had said that.

That day, Bellamy was learning a new kind of parry and was moving through the motions with a dummy before practicing against a trainer, and he wans't really paying attention to anyone else, just the movement of the sword in his hand and where his feet needed to go. That was, until he heard Murphy running his big mouth.

"All I'm saying is that we should train in the morning so we can actually _lift_ the swords and spears you want us throwing around." Bellamy turned to see Lieutenant Shumway walk from the front of the shade of the outer curtain wall to the center of the dirt packed training grounds where Murphy stood. Shumway moved calmly, hands tucked behind his back until he came to Murphy. Bellamy watched with trepidation. Maybe he should distance himself from Murphy if he was going to make trouble.

"Cadet Murphy, have you ever been in a battle?" Shumway said looking down his nose at Murphy.

"No, obviously not," Murphy said, resting his sword on the ground, digging the point in and leaning on it.

"Obviously," Shumway said. "Well, in a battle, do you suppose you're going to be fresh and ready like you've just gotten out of bed? Or are you going to be sweaty, dirty, and exhausted?"

Murphy's face turned down in an ugly frown. "Well, the second one."

Shumway's voice rose steadily until he was yelling into Murphy's face. "So if we battle dirty, sweaty, and exhausted, we are going to _train_ dirty, sweaty, and exhausted. Any more questions?"

"No," Murphy said, looking down at the ground.

Lieutenant Shumway then slapped the sword out from beneath Murphy's elbow, grabbing the hilt and turning it to point at Murphy's neck. "You'd do well to treat both me and your weapon with more respect. Swords belong in the guts of men, not in the dirt. And not just no, I need no _sir_. Do you understand?"

"Yes, _sir_," Murphy said. Shumway nodded and went back up to the front of the group and finished leading the exercises Murphy's group had been doing. The whole rest of the training session, Murphy had this deadly kind of silence about him, and Bellamy made sure to keep his distance. He was already involved in enough shit.

Instead, he focused his energies on mastering the moves assigned to him. His whole life, he had been looked down upon for living in the slums. People claimed that he hadn't worked hard enough or did something wrong to deserve his life of poverty. To prove them wrong, he worked even harder. Bellamy was long accustomed to working from sunup to sundown in taverns and alehouses doing cleaning, breaking up bar brawls, and anything else that would bring in some money. Octavia did work too, sewing smaller projects for a seamstress which helped bring in a few coppers. It was enough to keep them going, but barely. They survived in the slums because of hard work, but only few would actually call what they did "living".

When he disarmed the young Guard he was sparring with for the tenth time that day, Shumway came up to Bellamy and looked him up and down.

"Well done, Cadet Blake. Why don't you head back to the barracks?" he said.

Bellamy swallowed back the jibe he had been ready to fire back. _Just wait until you're Captain, Bellamy. Then you can say whatever you want._ "Yes, sir," he said. "Thank you, sir."

He felt like puking just saying that to a man who was basically a lapdog to royalty. If Lieutenant Shumway hadn't one-upped Murphy earlier, Bellamy would've thought he'd gone rusty having spent so long in the throne room. He quickly made his way back to the barracks just outside the outer bailey. It still rankled him that they still weren't good enough to be kept wholly within the castle walls. It wasn't like they didn't have enough room within the keep. Bellamy knew the castle was mostly empty. There were no foreign emissaries, no huge feasts that required keeping nobles in guest rooms. Hell, the castle was still technically in mourning for the king. But they apparently couldn't keep fewer than a hundred cadets within the wall.

He hated playing into the system. Hated saying the pledge swearing his soul and his sword to service of the kingdom, to protect the Queen and do whatever the crown asked. It all seemed like a strange, obsessive religion to him. _It's for Octavia, all of this is for Octavia_. He reminded himself of that every time he took a bit of moldy bread or a swig of vinegary wine. Bellamy may be sore in muscles he never knew he had, but at least his still has some modicum of freedom and food to fill his belly. Octavia had it so much worse, and it grated on his soul that his fragile little sister was being kept with criminals.

At the end of the week, they started letting cadets do patrols of the castle. Once inside, he could maybe bribe someone to break her out, at best, or sneak her some food and a blanket at least. As Bellamy ate a thick, but flavorless bowl of leftover steamed oats that night before he took a bath and went to bed, he thought of how he could do just that. He didn't even say anything to Murphy and Miller when they walked by, just nodded his goodnights. He was on the right track and wanted to keep it that way.

_Just hang on Octavia. I'm coming for you. Stay strong and don't be afraid_. He repeated the words to himself like a prayer as he drifted off to the sounds of dozens of other boys falling asleep. Everyone needed something to keep them going here, be it loyalty to the crown, bribes, or a threatened prison sentence. Bellamy's reason was Octavia, and that was all the reason he needed.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you all for your wonderful feedback and support! It makes my day to know you guys like my story :) Thanks a thousand times over for my awesome beta Fish Wishes (you rock!) who really helped me find Bellamy's voice for that chapter. Please let me know what you think and how I can improve this story.**

**Much love**

**-Bliss**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/n:** **I know I promised once a week guys, but I was on a week long vacation then had to rework this chapter a little bit. We're about to the exciting part now, everyone, just hold on. This was the last set-up chapter.**

* * *

Bellamy stood in the very first line of their group of cadets in the dirt-packed field of the outer bailey. Their morning conditioning had been postponed until the announcement regarding advancements would be made. Nervousness made him antsy and all he wanted to do was walk around, maybe fight someone, do _something. _He felt closed in on all sides, surrounded by other cadets and the outer curtain wall to the west and inner curtain wall to the east, though if he squinted, he could see the towers of the inner keep. _Please, please, please_. He kept up the inner litany of prayer hoping that he had proven himself worthy enough to be stationed inside the keep this week. Lieutenant Shumway had mentioned to them that morning that a select few cadets had proven themselves worthy of early advancement. Bellamy hoped this meant he would finally be allowed within the keep so he could help his sister.

Throughout the whole week he had worked his ass off, running faster, lifting more, fighting harder than anyone else. And he was getting better; he could see the new cords of muscle in his arms, legs, and torso. In a sparring match against Shumway himself, Bellamy had won. He only hoped it would be enough.

Just then, Bellamy saw Shumway advance with two guards at his side. He came and stood in front of the group of anxious, sweating cadets. They saluted as they'd been taught, left arm tucked behind their backs, right fist curled against their heart. Bellamy was almost used to it by now. That worried him.

But there were larger issues at hand when Shumway opened his mouth.

"Cadets, you've been here, training to become Guardsmen for nearly a month now. Some of you have shown exceptional improvements and deserve to be rewarded. Others have shown laziness, insubordination, or just aren't trying hard enough. So today you will form three groups. Those who will be advancing to the next stage of training to work rounds in the inner keep, those who will remain at the strength and conditioning portion of training until they have proven themselves worthy of advancement, and those who will be sent away. These decisions are final and will not be changed." Worried tittering issued from the crowd, boys wondering whether or not they would be advancing or sent away. Bellamy was only really worried about himself. He hoped Murphy and Miller wouldn't be kicked out, but simply because they could prove useful to him later.

Shumway unrolled a scroll and began to read. "Those advancing will be Idris Carlson, Anthony Pearson, and Bellamy Blake." His heart nearly dropped out of his chest. He had done it. Finally, he could get inside and help his sister and get one step closer to finding her a permanent, safe life within the walls of the inner keep. If he could keep this up, he was golden. Bellamy was so excited, he didn't even notice the rest of the names, except to hear that Miller and Murphy would be staying in the barracks to continue basic training.

The two guards at Shumway's side descended and herded two other boys with them before coming to Bellamy. Anthony Pearson was taller than him with dark skin, close cropped hair, black eyes, and white teeth that flashed when he smiled at Bellamy. Idris Carlson was average height with arms and face so outrageously sunburned Bellamy couldn't believe he hadn't caught fire. His clear grey eyes were stony as he sized Bellamy up. At this point, he wouldn't care if these two were murderers that caught a lucky break, he was too excited. He was going to the castle to meet up with his sister.

"Blake, Carlson, Pearson, keep up," one of the guards barked, face milky pale and flushed beneath his visor. He led the way while Bellamy and the other two boys trotted along behind them, the other guardsman on their tails. As they made their way to the gate of the inner bailey he spoke to them. "I am Guardsman Dodds and the Guard behind you is Guardsman Lake. We will be the ones leading the first stage of your training within the keep. You will do as I ask when I ask it. You will follow any and all rules including those covering dress, housekeeping, out-of-bounds areas, and decorum. Any transgressions will not be forgiven. This is the castle, boys, you need to act like it."

Bellamy looked at the other two Cadets and they shared matching looks of fear and determination. Looked like for better or for worse, they were all in this together.

Moments of silence passed until they reached the gate.

"Collins," Dodds called up to the Guard manning the gate crank. "Got the new boys. Let us in."

"You didn't even say please," the Guard said, smirking as he looked down on the group. His almost over-long brown hair hung like a curtain around the edges of his pale face, dark eyes crinkled at the edges as if he was laughing at his own personal joke.

Dodds smiled back just for a second, breaking his stony façade.

"Open the gate, Collins. Don't make me float you," Dodds said, after coughing to muffle his laughter.

"What if I could swim?" Collins called at them as they passed underneath the thick wooden gate.

Lake snorted. "And what if I could fly?"

Bellamy could hear Collins snicker as they passed beneath his post. His first thought was that Collins needed to maintain his role as a guard while on duty. He shouldn't be cracking jokes while protecting the gate to the inner bailey. His second thought was that if they could joke, maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all.

Then he was distracted from it all by the look of the castle. It was enormous; Bellamy couldn't believe he hadn't seen it from the barracks, outside the outer curtain wall. The limestone building shone a pearlescent white in the sun as the light crept over from the east, crenelated towers formed four posts around the inner bailey, connected by meters thick walls, meeting in the south end to become the walls to the inner keep. The keep itself had more windows than Bellamy could count, with a huge wooden door at the very front and conical topped towers popping out from the strangest places. He could almost imagine the Killer Princess Clarke locked in the highest room in the tallest tower.

It was only after he regained his wits that he noticed the bustle of activity around the castle. The moat had been let down and carts carrying fabrics, food, and miscellaneous goods had been let in and were taken to the eastern side of the keep where the entrance to the servants quarters were if he wasn't mistaken. Aproned women and sweaty men accepted the packages, trading pouches of gold coins for the goods before heaving them back into the keep. Guardsmen sparred in the southeastern corner, closest to the gate. Dodds and Lake nodded hello as the red-faced men hollered hellos. No one acknowledged Bellamy, Idris, or Anthony as Dodds led them to the main door, which hung open for entreaties to the crown. Bellamy was surprised at the line extending from the keep. Who would grovel in front of someone who didn't care whether or not they lived or died?

Dodds helped them shove their way through the crowd until they came to a four-way intersection, the one to the left was filled with people, some crying, a few angry. Most just had this desperate hopefulness about them. Bellamy wanted to shout at them, to say they should take their lives into their own hands. Begging never got you anything. He swallowed hard, getting his bearings again. There would come a day when he would have to navigate this keep, and it was better to learn the layout now than later.

The hall to the right had only a few guards walking down it as well as a servant carrying an armload of linens. Directly in front of the enormous wooden door was a grand, sweeping staircase leading steadily upward with carved marble handrails. Guardsmen were posted all over, watching the crowd, making sure no one went where they weren't supposed to go. Frescoes of the war leading to the Griffins ascension to the throne were on either wall, exquisitely painted with almost too many details. Was the decapitated soldier really necessary to preserve in paint?

"To the left is the throne room. Treatises to the crown are made the first day of each month. Ahead is meeting rooms and private quarters. To the right is Guard's quarters," Lake said to the Cadets.

"We have an armory there, as well as bedrooms. You will eat in the mess hall with other guards and servants. You will share rooms with another Guardsman. Each of you will be placed with an existing Guard to get into the swing of things more quickly."

"And so you don't have to be responsible for them," Lake said simply from behind.

"Oi, shut your trap, Lake," Dodds said before leading them down the right hand hallway. As Bellamy trailed behind, he spared one last glance up at the grand staircase. As he looked away he saw a swing of dark hair he recognized. He turned fully around, walking back to the center to look up the stairs. There, wearing a dusky pink colored shift and white apron, mahogany hair brushed until it shone was his sister, Octavia, trailing behind a blonde girl. She was alive. And okay, obviously being taken care of. He opened his mouth to call to her, but it was as if his voice had been taken away, his feet glued to the ground. Before he could say a thing, Octavia had walked through a doorway and out of his sight.

"_Blake_," Dodds said, breaking him out of his reverie. Bellamy turned to look at the Guard. "What did I say about following along?"

"Sorry, sir," Bellamy said, still not believing what he'd seen. "I thought I recognized someone."

Dodds just shook his head before turning around, motioning for Bellamy to follow him. The rest of the tour through the Guard's quarters went through in a haze. It couldn't have been Octavia. It _couldn't_. But it had been. He was sure of it. Now he had to find out where she was staying and what had happened to her. As he stumbled around, lost in his thoughts, they saw the armory, the mess hall, and were being led to their respective rooms. Idris and Anthony were dropped off first.

"Alright, Blake," Dodds said. "This is your stop. Looks like you drew the short straw."

The door swung open to reveal Collins, the guard from the gate removing his helm and doublet.

"Is this my fresh meat?" Collins asked, looking at Dodds.

"You know the drill, Collins," Dodds said, shaking his head. "Good luck kid." He slapped Bellamy on the shoulder before shoving him into the room and shutting the door. Bellamy could hardly process what was going on, and seeing his new roommate and his sister left him with more questions than answers. With a gulp, he smoothed his face into that of indifference before turning into his room.

It was small, maybe ten feet square, with two beds pushed against either wall, neatly made with pressed white sheets and blue woolen blankets. Small wardrobes were placed against the walls at the foot of the beds, and Bellamy noticed his was already filled with a guard's uniform. A window between the beds was cracked open, leaded pane showing the bustle of the inner keep.

"Are you going to say hello? Or just stand there all day?" Collins said, putting on a loose-fitting shirt.

"I could sit if you'd prefer," Bellamy said, turning his attention to his roommate.

Collins laughed. "I think we'll get along just fine. Blake was it?"

"Bellamy Blake." He held out his hand. Collins took it.

"I'm Finn Collins," he said, grinning. "We're going to have a good time."

* * *

"No, no, ouch! You're not supposed to _yank_ it, you're supposed to _brush_ it," Clarke said after Octavia had pulled on her hair too hard for what seemed to be the hundredth time that day.

Octavia threw her hands up in frustration. "I'm sorry that I don't know how to brush hair properly, Clarke. I'm still getting used to all of this."

Clarke sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Yes, yes. I understand Octavia. Sorry, for shouting. I didn't sleep well last night."

"Yeah, I heard. You snore like thunder when you're having a nightmare," Octavia said, moving to sit in a small chair behind Clarke's vanity. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Clarke looked at her in the mirror. A week of good food, regular baths, and uninterrupted—well mostly, unless Clarke's alleged snoring had woken her—sleep had done wonders for the girl. Her hair was long and glossy, albeit tangled since she clearly didn't know how to brush it, and her cheeks just had a hint of roundness to them, making her look healthy instead of starving. Not to mention the simple shifts and aprons she wore suited her much better than the excrement splattered rags she had worn in the prison. Octavia had quickly wormed her way into Clarke's heart, and the princess loved seeing her thrive. But getting Octavia to trust her in return was proving a little more challenging. Sure, she would talk, even joke with the princess, but sometimes Clarke caught Octavia giving her glances she wasn't meant to see, filled with something akin to enmity in her eyes. It was rare for Octavia to even broach topics that could be considered personal. But Clarke wasn't ready to try and crack her yet. Or talk about her nightmares. Not this early in the morning.

"Talking about dreams is dreadfully boring, Octavia. But I could show you how to properly untangle hair instead of yanking it out of someone's scalp," Clarke said, smiling into the mirror where she knew Octavia would see. The princess stood and gestured for Octavia to take Clarke's place in the vanity's chair. Octavia grinned and did a half-curtsy and plopped unceremoniously in front of the mirror.

"I'm pretty sure you're just overreacting," Octavia said as Clarke picked up the silver-backed brush.

"Or maybe I just don't have follicles of stone," she responded and began working from the bottom of Octavia's hair.

Octavia laughed. "No, I don't suppose you do. I'm surprised you even know how to brush someone else's hair if it's been done for you your whole life."

Clarke smiled to herself, working carefully through a knot. "And do you suppose my servants also feed me my soup and carry me instead of me walking?"

"No, of course not. Or else I would've had to do both of those things already." Octavia grinned impishly.

"I highly doubt you could carry me regardless, Octavia."

Octavia crossed her arms and raised a brow. "Well one of the guards could do it, but I doubt they'd want to come too close, Killer Princess."

Clarke momentarily let the brush drop and groaned. She could handle this one of two ways. One, go silent and not breach the subject with Octavia. She had every right to keep that part of her life private. But Clarke was tired of being friendless and alone with no one to make conversation with or open up to. Which left option two, handling it with good grace and humor. "Don't tell me that's gotten all the way into Coeur d'Arc."

Octavia gave a devilish grin. "Of course it has. You don't think servants would keep quiet about their darling princess clawing a guard's eyes out."

Clarke smacked Octavia on the shoulder with the brush. "That is _not_ what happened."

"Okay, fine, what did happen then?"

"I scratched one of his cheeks, nothing more. He didn't even have to go to the infirmary, not really. His eyes are entirely intact," Clarke said. Now that the worst of the tangles were worked out, Octavia's hair was like a dark river of silk in her hands.

"There, you see? No yanking necessary," Clarke said, fanning Octavia's hair out around her shoulders.

"Thank you, Princess," Octavia said, standing up from the chair. She moved to the wardrobe where she removed Clarke's day dress. The blue silk with silver ribbons and brocade was fancier than anything Octavia had ever worn, Clarke was sure, but she hadn't seen Octavia give an eye to the dresses once, not even when she knew a single one of the gowns would fetch a price to feed Octavia for months. "But you have to tell me Clarke, if it wasn't that big of a deal, why does every single guard flinch from you?"

"Not _every_ guard," Clarke said, stepping in from the back of the gown and lifted her hair for Octavia to lace up her corset. She breathed out, and Octavia yanked the laces hard. It had taken time for the girl to learn how to lace the corset correctly—_I feel as if I'm strangling you, Clarke _she had said the first time—but now she did it as smoothly as every other maid Clarke had had. Clarke breathed shallowly as Octavia did up the pearl buttons.

"Oh, right. That one guard, Collins. He smiles when you walk by," Octavia paused midway up Clarke's back. "Is there something there I should know about?"

Clarke felt herself blush. Was she really so desperate for affection that a man simply _talking _to her made her stomach churn? "No, there's nothing untoward with Guardsman Collins."

Octavia finished doing up the dress, smoothing the brocade and headed to fetch Clarke's slippers. "Okay, I'll let you off on that one. But seriously, why are you the killer Princess?"

"I didn't take my father's death well. Apparently, I screamed for days." Clarke stopped for a moment, feeling as if she'd given too much away. Octavia's openly pitying face kept her going, though. "My mother and Viceroy Jaha thought it'd be best if I wasn't paraded around whilst in mourning. So I was kept in a tower until I had become rational enough. That's when I saw you."

"Well, I suppose Batty Princess would be a more apt title," Octavia said, emerging from Clarke's room with a pair of silk slippers after a long moment of silence. The princess couldn't help but laugh. She was more thankful than ever she had chosen well in keeping Octavia.

"Yes, yes I suppose it would be. Now come, I have to go to listen to the entreaties of the people and you will need to serve there to bring wine to the Queen, Viceroy Jaha, and myself," Clarke said moving to her door. Octavia groaned. "I know you don't like the kitchens, but it will only be for a little while. Plus, it's only lunchtime, it won't be nearly as busy."

"If you say so," Octavia said, opening the door and following behind Clarke.

"And this time, don't trip the other serving girl when she comments on your chest, alright?" Clarke said, half-joking. Octavia didn't get along the best with the other maids, but Clarke hadn't laughed so hard in a long time.

"You don't let me have any fun," Octavia grumped, but followed dutifully behind Clarke. They made their way from Clarke's quarters, giving polite hellos to the guards they passed and a few other maids. When they got near the entrance of the keep, Clarke was continuing forward to take the back entrance to the throne room, but Octavia paused when she saw the line.

"What is going on there?" she said, mouth hanging open.

Clarke paused and looked down the grand staircase, hoping not to bring attention to herself. More than once, a citizen of Arc had tried to mob a noble during entreaties as he paraded himself in front of the people. He had brought it on himself, for sure, but Clarke wasn't looking for trouble. "This is the day where citizens are allowed to make entreaties to the crown. There's always a large crowd but we can rarely see them all."

Octavia gulped, a strange, longing sort of look making her eyes glassy. "Does it ever work?"

"Not as often as I'd hope," Clarke said, turning away and walking toward the back entrance to the throne room. Octavia followed behind, shaking her head. The two girls had turned just as a group of Cadets had entered. Clarke would have thought nothing of them. Cadets and Guards rotated throughout the castle all the time, three new additions were nothing except more people to avoid her. But to Octavia Blake, the orphan, seeing the mop of messy, dark hair and warm brown eyes, even from a distance would've meant the world.

* * *

**A/n: Thanks for reading! Hopefully you enjoyed. As always, thanks to my AMAZING beta Fish Wishes. You rock. Getting feedback makes my day, so if you have time, please drop a review and tell me what you liked/what I can do better.**

**Love always**

**Bliss**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: The moment you've all been waiting for is here. Enjoy!**

* * *

Bellamy was awakened by a loud screeching noise is his ear. "Rise and shine, Bellamy. We've got guarding to do."

When he cracked open his eyes Finn's face took up his entire field of view, brown eyes wide and nearly manic with excitement. Bellamy rubbed his ear, the shrill tone still buzzing in his head. "What did you just do?"

"It's a kind of whistle, but I can teach you that later. Put your uniform on, quick. If you want breakfast before our rounds you're going to have to hurry," Finn opened Bellamy's wardrobe and began throwing the various parts of the Guardsman's uniform at him. Much to Bellamy's chagrin, Finn was already ready for the day, uniform pressed, boots shined.

"How do you wake up so early?" Bellamy grunted as he pulled on the soft leather breeches and cotton shirt before shrugging the velvet doublet over his head and cinching his newly acquired sword belt around his hips. It hadn't quite hit him yet that he was in the keep. Soon, he would be able to see his sister. If that was really who it had been, after all. He'd only gotten a glance of her, but a glance was enough to convince him he had to at least try and look. Bellamy wanted to search as soon as possible, but he wasn't sure if that would be okay given his status as a cadet in the Guards. Maybe he could get Finn to help him? He seemed like a decent enough guy.

Finn's perky response broke him out of his reverie. "You get used to it. The first couple weeks were harsh, but now I can't sleep past dawn even if I wanted to. You ready?"

Bellamy nodded and Finn followed him out. They were a few paces down the corridor when Bellamy paused. "Aren't you going to lock the door?"

Finn gave him a strange look. "We're in the Guard's quarters with people around here twenty-four hours a day. You really think someone is going to try and break in?"

"Sorry, habit," Bellamy said, and looked away from Finn. Locked doors had been the norm back in Coeur d'Arc, even when you had nothing to steal. But this wasn't Coeur d'Arc, this was the keep, and Bellamy had bigger things to focus on than locked doors.

"It takes some getting used to, don't worry about it," Finn said, sauntering his way through the halls. Finn nodded at some guards and winked at serving girls as they passed by. Bellamy tried his hardest not to grimace. He wasn't in the mood for being friendly, not when he was _so close_. After a few twists and turns in wide stone hallways bereft of anything save a few moth-eaten tapestries, they were at the mess hall. If Bellamy had followed his senses, it would have led him here no problem. The stone walls weren't thick enough to completely mask the incessant buzzing of hundreds of voices, which he had long since dismissed as sleep deprivation and nerves. He could smell baking bread mixed with herbs he couldn't name, mostly because he'd never had a reason to eat them. The only herbs he'd even been able to afford—or steal if he was being honest—were those for when Octavia was sick. Taste was rarely a factor when they ate growing up.

"Welcome to the mess hall," Finn said. "Follow me if you want to eat."

_That was overdramatic, _Bellamy thought asFinn wended his way quickly through the mass of bodies. Most of the crowd was guardsmen laughing while shoving bread and porridge in their mouths. The odd servant girl or handmaiden was in the mix, but usually they moved in a small pack of two or three. Girls kept their heads down, he noticed, and Bellamy wasn't surprised. More than once he had seen the savagery of men. _I need to get Octavia out_.

Moments later, they were in a small line to be served from a kettle nearly as wide as Bellamy was tall filled with bubbling, brownish-grey porridge. Loaves of bread sat in neat rows beside a low stone hearth waiting to be ripped and served to the masses.

"Two today, Chef," Finn said, grinning at the thick man sweating over the kettle as he spooned out breakfast.

"Finally got yourself a bunkmate, Collins?" Chef said, slopping food into chipped wooden bowls.

"Guess Dodds decided it was time for another one," Finn said and handed Bellamy a bowl and tore off two large hunks of bread. Bellamy juggled the two in his hands before turning again to look at Finn. He didn't seem that old, but to be as comfortable as he was around everyone…How long could he have been here? "Have to get him ready for the rounds though, it's Killer Princess today for us."

Bellamy nearly tripped. "_What_?"

Chef laughed, sweat-streaked face reddening with laughter. "Maybe you should check on the Cadet, Collins. It seems he's misplaced his own feet."

"Guess I should've told him. C'mon Blake. We have to eat fast, stop socializing," Finn said before stepping quickly back into the fray.

"I'm not the one _talking_," Bellamy said. All this information was making his head reel and the overly friendly Collins wasn't making things easier. Especially dropping news like that on him. Killer Princess. They were going to be doing patrols around the _Killer Princess_.

"I thought Princess Clarke was in a tower, high up in the keep," Bellamy said, trying to keep his voice detached. It wasn't that he was scared, but if this is what they assigned first day guys, what did they do once you had been here awhile?

"You scared?" Finn said, finding a few empty spots on one of the many wide wooden tables and settling himself in.

"No, just misinformed, I suppose," Bellamy said.

Finn began eating up spoonfuls of porridge. "They let her out a week or two back, and she's not crazy like everyone thinks, at least not when I see her. At worst, most Guardsmen turn tail and run when they see her, ignore her at best, but I say hello when I do inspections. Talk to her like she's a person, you know? Her dad just died, and honestly, I think she's just lonely."

Bellamy's eyes widened, but he focused on keeping food going into his mouth. He always imagined the Princess like this sort of _Other_, just like the rest of the monarchy. High up, distant, and not really people so much as useless, uncaring tyrants. "Most don't go crazy when their dad dies. It happens to a lot of people."

Finn looked at Bellamy, a certain understanding coming over his eyes. "They have feelings, too, Bellamy. As much as ineffectual as they can be at helping us sometimes, it was her dad. And King Jake wasn't that bad. He and Clarke were like this," he twined his fingers together. "Then he didn't just die, he was assassinated. By Clarke's only friend."

Bellamy stopped with his spoon halfway to his mouth. "The King was assassinated?"

"Why did you think they brought in a new batch of Cadets so soon? It doesn't normally go so quickly," Finn said, tearing off a chunk of bread and squeezing it between his fingers. "Wells Jaha, son of the Viceroy sentenced to life in prison for the assassination of King Jacob Griffin, first of his name. They didn't want it to get into the city that the Viceroy's son is the one who did it, though; it might make Jaha look bad, so they kept it all hushed up. When Jake died, Clarke just kind of lost it. Two of the people closest to her, taken out in one fell swoop. It's no wonder she didn't make any friends until now."

"Now? What do you mean, now?" Bellamy said. He found himself leaning closer. How had they kept all of this from the people? Their own King assassinated, and the population of Coeur d'Arc had no idea. Bellamy was under the impression it had been an accident.

Finn leaned close over the table and looked around, as if this was the secret. "Princess is now best friends with her maid. She's never liked her maids before, but anyway, right after the Princess was let out of the tower, she got this girl pulled out of the keep where she was being held for something awful, I'd imagine. The princess convinced the queen and the Viceroy to let her on as a handmaiden. They've been attached at the hip ever since."

Bellamy swore his heart stopped beating for a moment. "The maid, what does she look like?"

Finn leaned back. "That whole story and you're interested in the _maid_? Not the assassination? Not the woeful tale of the Killer Princess, but the mystery maid?"

Taking deep breaths, Bellamy fought to stay calm. A young girl, taken from the bowels of the keep. It had to be Octavia. He had seen her in the castle for God's sake, who else would it be? "Please, what does she look like?"

Moments passed before Finn answered, as if he hadn't spared her enough glances to be thoroughly sure of his answer. "Long, straight hair, dark brownish. Olive skin, like yours, I guess. She's thin, with hazel…no, brown eyes?"

His spoon clattered in his bowl. "Let's go. We need to get on patrol, don't we?"

"Well, yeah, I was wondering when you'd be ready. C'mon, we need to do inspections," Bellamy didn't mention that once again, Finn was the one doing all the talking. Finn motioned for Bellamy to follow as they brought their bowls back to the front of the mess hall where a serving girl was washing dishes and setting them aside. It took only minutes, but Bellamy was abuzz with excitement. In moments, he would see his sister again. He didn't much care she was with the princess. That was something he could work out later. Octavia was safe. She was alive. That's all that mattered.

"Now make sure you're polite to the Princess. You're not allowed to say 'Killer Princess' unless it's behind her back. The Queen doesn't much like the title, surprisingly. Salute when you see her and always say 'my lady,' 'yes, princess,' whatever. Keep her happy and maybe she won't claw your eyes out."

"I thought she didn't—" Bellamy began, but Finn waved his words away.

"The official story and the real one are different. Who cares. Makes it more interesting so the assassination stays under wraps. Anyway, we'll be inspecting the room, searching the maid, making sure there's no contraband or anything, that's part of the agreement." Finn said as he led Bellamy through the keep, going back to where he had entered the day before. This time, they went up the grand staircase. Bellamy wasn't paying much attention to his surroundings and Finn's voice had long since become a low buzz in his ear. What would he do when he saw his sister? Should he keep himself a secret? Try and get her out? Or maybe he should let her be. But only if it looked like she was happy. If Octavia seemed upset at all, Bellamy would do whatever it took, especially if the Princess was mistreating her. This was all assuming it was even Octavia at all. Finn's description wasn't exactly clear, and it could be Bellamy's own wishful thinking that had turned the random handmaid into his little sister.

His train of thought was stopped when Finn put his arm in front of Bellamy. They were in a part of the castle Bellamy hadn't seen yet. It was cleaner than the rest, with dry halls, well-lit by the morning sun and the odd torch. Flower arrangements were placed at even intervals, alternating almost perfectly with on-duty guards who stared stony-faced in front of them. All around was the rearing Gryphon in silver and blue in thread in tapestries, in the enameled paint on vases. Hell, it was on Bellamy's own doublet. He was really here, right now, about to see if his sister was really the handmaid to the Princess. All that separated them was this wooden door.

Finn hissed, "Remember what I told you, okay? Best behavior." Then he knocked. "Princess Clarke, this is Guardsman Collins. I'm here for your morning inspection."

"Come in," a feminine voice called, and Finn waited one more second before opening the door. If he had been paying any attention to his surroundings, Bellamy would've seen the rich furnishings all throughout the room. The silks, the velvet, the smooth wooden furniture would've been enough to give anyone pause. But not him. In that moment, you could've dangled all the gold in the castle in front of his nose and he wouldn't have noticed because there, mere meters from him, stood Octavia. Her hair was smooth and shining, her cheeks pink, and a half smile on her face as if the Princess had said something entertaining just as the Guards had entered.

More quickly than he could believe, the smile dropped and Octavia's eyes opened wide.

"Bellamy?" she whispered, standing stock still.

"Octavia," he said, walking toward her and a split-second later, Octavia met him halfway.

Clarke looked on in confusion as her maid threw herself into the arms of a mysterious man. "Octavia?"

The other Guard, Collins, stepped into the room and looked to Clarke. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he shrugged. "Sorry, Princess, I have no idea."

"Who is he?" Clarke asked, looking at Guardsman Collins. If another Guard had brought him in, he couldn't be bad, could he?

"My new Cadet, Bellamy Blake," Collins said. His cadet? So this man was in the Guards? Bellamy Blake, which reminded her of Octavia Blake. Were they related?

"Bellamy Blake, who—what—_Octavia_," Clarke shouted, trying to get her attention. The girl was surreptitiously wiping tears from her eyes before taking a deep breath and stepping back.

"Please, Clarke, don't be angry," Octavia began, wringing her hands as she stepped toward the Princess.

"I'm not angry, just confused. Please, someone tell me what is going on," Clarke said, looking from face to face before landing on that of Bellamy Blake. He was taller than Collins with curling mahogany hair splayed messily over his forehead, tanned skin, and deep brown eyes. Those eyes were glaring at Clarke as if she had done something wrong.

"What's going on, _Princess_," In Bellamy's mouth, the word sounded more like a curse than a title. "Is that you were keeping my little sister locked beneath the keep."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"_Blake," _Collins said, glaring at Bellamy and he moved toward the taller man. "This is your Princess."Clarke didn't much care about the disrespect. It was the boldface lies coming out of his mouth she cared about.

"The royal family took Octavia and locked her in the depths of the keep with murderers and rapists and God knows who else—" Bellamy stepped toward Clarke and the Princess might have been afraid if not for Octavia hanging off his elbow.

Clarke grew indignant at his accusations, though. How was she supposed to know there was a young girl in the keep? If she hadn't gotten out that day, Octavia might've rotted down there longer. Clarke had nothing to do with Octavia's sentencing and had tried her hardest to do what was right and now this Cadet had the nerve to come into her solar and give her the what-for. "That is _not_ what happened."

"Okay, then explain to me—" Octavia clapped her hand over Bellamy's mouth and looked beseechingly at Clarke.

"I'm so sorry. This is my brother, Bellamy. I haven't seen him since I got taken and placed in the keep. He's just wildly protective. Can we have a moment so I can explain the situation?" Octavia dropped her hand from Bellamy's mouth and stood between him and the Princess. The princess ignored the daggers Bellamy was staring at her.

Clarke took a deep breath. Heaven knows how hard this had been for Octavia. She was still settling into the role of a maid, and if Octavia's brother hadn't known she was out of the keep and in safe hands…well, the Princess could understand his worry. Plus, if he was on rounds already, he must be moving his way up through the ranks of the Guards quickly. The program was strenuous and not everyone got so far so fast. If Bellamy was anything like his sister, he'd do fine, as long as he didn't make a habit of yelling at the royal family. Considering everything, the Blake siblings—_siblings_, she was still processing because how come Octavia had never told her?—were handling this surprisingly well. "Yes, take all the time you need, Octavia."

The young girl nodded and dragged Bellamy further into the room before shutting the door. Clarke sat down quickly on one of the many couches in her solar. This certainly hadn't been what she expected of the morning. Today, she was supposed to be present at the council meeting to discuss issues within the kingdom. At this rate, they won't have time to eat and be on time. Breakfast could wait, she supposed, if she didn't want to get chided by her mother.

"That was exactly the opposite of what I told him to do," Guardsman Collins sighed, shaking his head as he stood in a loose rendition of "at-attention".

Clarke let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding and chuckled. "Yes, I'd imagine it wasn't. Not much time to prepare him?"

"No, Princess," Collins shook his head. "It's only my first day with him, but as soon as I mentioned your new maid he was all about coming here to meet her."

"I can see why. They must be very close," Clarke said, moving to sit on one of her couches. She subconsciously smoothed her skirt. What must it be like, to have an older brother protecting you? "You can sit, you know. I'm not going to bite."

Collins grinned, "I think we covered that the first time, my lady. Besides, it would be improper."

"As you like."

Moments passed in silence, before Collins opened his mouth. "You don't have any siblings, do you, Princess? Anyone besides your parents, parent, I mean. Sorry." Clarke pretended she didn't hear his voice trail off midway through the "s". Most people had parents, _plural_. It was just Clarke's luck that her best friend had changed it to the singular. One thing at a time though. Else she would be drowning in her own mind.

"No. Why?"

Collins shuffled back and forth. "Then you have no idea what it's like. Out there, in Coeur d'Arc."

"I wouldn't say I'm wholly ignorant, but no, I suppose I'm certainly not an expert." Clarke looked to the young guard. He had a wistful smile on his face that vanished into his trademark smirk as soon as he saw the Princess looking.

"Well when you find someone to hang on to, a sister, friend, parent, girlfriend, whoever, you hang on to that. More often than not, they're all you have, so you sure as hell had better hold on tight," Finn said, a stoniness Clarke had never heard from him coming into his voice at the end. "And when someone gets taken for something tiny, the people they leave behind can't do anything but worry, wondering what happened to them."

Realization dawned over his face as if he'd just realized all he'd said. "I'm sorry, my lady, that kind of language shouldn't be used in your presence. I beg your forgiveness."

Clarke waved him away when he bent to kneel. "Don't worry, you're fine. But would they really not notify the family when someone is arrested?"

"Not usually, no. One day they're there, the next day they could be forced to join the Guard or risk being hanged," Finn coughed. "Not speaking from experience of course, but that's how it goes much of the time."

"That needs to change," Clarke said, standing. "I will certainly bring that up to the council when we meet today. I had no idea that was so commonplace."

"People will be grateful, Princess, I'm sure." Collins gave a half-bow.

Clarke opened her mouth to say something else when she heard the door to her inner chambers open.

"Clarke?" Octavia said, poking her head out. Bellamy stood like a guardian angel over her shoulder.

"Yes?" The princess stepped toward that end of the room, keeping a goodly amount of distance between her and the siblings. After what Collins had told her, she didn't want to be getting between the two any time soon.

"Bellamy would like to say something to you." Octavia yanked her brother forward, pushing him toward the princess.

Bellamy stood in front of her, looking for all the world like an indignant dog who didn't know why he had been kicked. It was almost strange, seeing a man so muscle bound seeming so small. "I'm sorry for accusing you, Princess Clarke. I was not aware you weren't a part of the decision to lock Octavia in the keep," Bellamy said. Clarke felt this Cadet was not used to groveling to anyone, and he certainly didn't appear to like it.

"And?" Octavia said expectantly. Clarke tried her hardest not to laugh. Leave it to a small thing like Octavia to have her brother in the palm of her tiny hand.

"And I'm very thankful you have kept Octavia safe and well under your care. It is almost more than anyone in Coeur d'Arc can hope for," Bellamy finished. Octavia moved beside him again, leaning on the back of a couch.

"Moving on, now—" Octavia began before Bellamy barred her with his arm.

"Just know that if _anything_ happens to her, I will be going after you, Princess, and that is a promise," Bellamy said, suddenly stepping nose-to-nose with Clarke. From this close she could see flecks of amber in his eyes and a dusting of freckles across his cheekbones. It took everything she had not to back down. With Bellamy Blake, she certainly wasn't going to show weakness, not from the start.

"_Bellamy,_" Octavia said.

"Blake, that's not a good idea—" Collins hissed, hand going to his sword on instinct as he moved to protect the Princess

Clarke held out her hand, staying both the Guard and her maid. "Octavia will be protected as if she were a member of the royal family. I will not let any harm come to her. _That_ is a promise, Guardsman Blake."

Bellamy coughed out a hoarse laugh. "I learned a long time ago not to trust promises from royalty."

"Believe what you wish, but if you want to keep seeing your sister _and_ stay in the Guard, you'll want to stay on my good side," Clarke said. If he was going to treat her like the slimy Killer Princess then she was going to damn well prove him wrong.

Octavia looked up from beside her brother, hope clear in her eyes. "Really?"

"Yes, really. If Guardsman Collins can help us, I think it would be no trouble for you to see your brother when you have your afternoon off each week, Octavia. Right Guardsman Collins?" Clarke said, looking expectantly at the shorter Guard.

"I think that can be arranged. Just as long as Blake toes the line and doesn't disobey any other orders like _yelling and threatening the royal family_," Collins said, giving a sharp look at Bellamy, who shrugged.

"Well then, that's that. Now, if you'll excuse us, I have matters of state to attend to, and Octavia must accompany me." Clarke began stepping toward her door. "You two can have a moment to say goodbye."

Octavia ran up and gave her a hug. Clarke couldn't help but smile and squeeze the girl tight in her arms. Maybe they could be friends after all, just like Clarke had always hoped for. "Thank you, thank you, thank you. A thousand times over, thank you." Octavia said.

"Go say goodbye to your brother, Octavia," Clarke whispered in her ear, and stepped out of the room, Collins following close on her heels. The younger of the two Blakes certainly looked pleased, but from the steely glint in Bellamy's eyes that Clarke caught just before the door shut, she was certain she hadn't quite won him over just yet.

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**A/N: Sorry for the late update everyone. I just worked really hard on getting this moment right and took awhile to send it to my awesome beta Fish Wishes (thanks like always for helping me out!) Things will be getting going now, and I'm excited to share it with you guys. Please leave a comment telling me what you think about the plot, the characterization, what I can do better. Feedback is how you pay fic writers ;)**

**Hopefully you all liked it**

**Love always**

**Bliss**


	5. Chapter 5

Octavia was sweeping the floors of Clarke's bedroom as the princess focused on putting pearl earrings in her ears

"He still thinks you're an empty-headed snob," Octavia said, pushing the dirt into a neat pile.

"It's not part of your job to convince him otherwise, Octavia. Let him think what he wants," Clarke said, standing from her chair to look over at her maid. "It's his life."

Over a month had passed since her first explosive meeting with the other Blake sibling, and the climate between Clarke and Bellamy had hardly improved. When Bellamy came to Clarke's room each week on his afternoon off to see Octavia, he never said a word to the Princess, just glared before moving past her to Clarke's inner chamber where they wouldn't be discovered. During that time, Collins would come to watch for any guards wondering why a Cadet would be coming to the Princess's chambers on a regular basis. Last week, Clarke asked why the Guards wouldn't be questioning Collins's coming to her rooms.

"I'm assigned to you, my lady," he had said with a shrug. Clarke knew she had her own guards, but she rarely left the castle—except for her regular stints into Coeur d'Arc in disguise, but those weren't approved and she certainly didn't have guards, only Octavia covering for her, if anyone asked—and had little cause to see her personal regiment.

Clarke and Guardsman Collins talked while the Blakes were together, and she quickly grew fond of the messy-haired guard. Sometimes he would look at her with something akin to desire on his face, but Clarke was nowhere near ready to breach that topic with him to say she wasn't interested. So they stayed on other topics, like the growing attacks on the border from Arc's neighbor, Terre d'Déformée, and how quickly Bellamy was rising in the ranks of the Guards. Much to Clarke's surprise, Bellamy not only excelled at the physical parts of his training, regularly beating veteran soldiers in archery and swordplay, but also in tactics and strategy.

"Soon, he'll be promoted from a Cadet to an actual Guard, and from there who knows. He's got Commander Shumway in the palm of his hand. He'd be the youngest captain in years." Collins said one day as they sat in Clarke's solar while Clarke worked on a needlepoint.

"Well that's great," Clarke said, weaving colored thread back and forth through the fabric.

"Not if he's reassigned elsewhere," Collins gave her a pointed look. "Like the border."

So Clarke had that to worry about too.

"Don't we have a meeting with your mother today, Clarke?" Octavia said, glancing at her pocket watch she kept tucked in her apron.

"Yes, yes let's go," Clarke said standing and inspecting herself in the vanity mirror one last time. Hair pinned back, dress smooth and wrinkle free, and gifted earrings in place. She followed Octavia out the door as they made their way down to the council chambers.

As much as she liked her mother taking her more seriously and beginning to trust her again, she detested Council meetings. They mainly consisted of various advisers trying to tell Queen Abby and Viceroy Jaha how to not spend money, and how the people who needed help were really just greedy fiends and didn't the adviser's themselves deserve higher pay? Once in a while, Clarke would try to interject with real issues, like the poverty within Coeur d'Arc and the many orphaned children left without homes, or how families were rarely notified when one of their own was arrested. Most of the time, Clarke was brushed away kindly or Commander Kane told her she was a little girl who didn't know what she was talking about.

Before long, Octavia was opening the thick wooden door to the Council chambers and Clarke entered the room, arriving last again. The room was smaller than the more formal throne room, with a circular table at the center and little to no furnishings on the stone walls, save a few torches to add light to the dreary surroundings. Attached was a small water closet and a storeroom with foodstuffs and blankets. If the keep was attacked, the council room is where the monarchy would wait it out.

"Come in, Clarke, we were just about to start," Abby said with a smile, gesturing for Clarke to take the chair beside hers.

Today, it was just her, the Queen, the Viceroy, and Commander Kane. A scribe sat in the corner, an inkpot and blotter, as well as several quills, situated on the edges of his tiny desk. The Princess met his eyes and smiled. A confused look crossed the small, wrinkled man's face as if to say, "_Who? Me?" _before smiling back. Clarke took the seat beside her mother, as far as she could get from Commander Kane and the Viceroy. Octavia went around the room in a circle, pouring wine in sturdy silver chalices, starting with Abby, then Clarke, and working her way around. Recognizing rank was important for servants, and a small glow of pride briefly overwhelmed the panic in Clarke's heart.

Once she was finished, Octavia moved to stand silently in the corner, giving Clarke a smile before the meeting began.

"To do away with formalities, let's begin. The attacks on the border have worsened," the Viceroy said, looking around the table. "There were losses this time, mainly of the 68th regiment. The border is under-guarded, but we already knew this. Thoughts?"

"Did they actually cross the border? Or did they only attack the outposts?" Kane asked earnestly.

"Does it matter? They've killed our own now, Marcus. We can't just do nothing," the Queen said.

"Of course it matters, my lady. We are not allowed to invade or respond in kind unless they actually cross the border. These are the terms your husband set with King Tristan when you met years ago with Terre d'Déformée. Breaking that agreement now could prove deadly," Kane said matter-of-factly.

"More deadly than it is now?" Abby said. "We've done nothing for too long, and I refuse to keep letting my people die. We need to mobilize the Guard. _Now_."

Clarke nearly lost herself in the quick back and forth between her mother and Kane. As they argued their points, the princess began to form an idea. "Well why are they attacking us? I thought we settled all the past issues with the accords years ago."

Kane paused and looked incredulously at Clarke. "What?"

"Well," Clarke cleared her throat. She chanced a look at Octavia and saw her nodding encouragingly. "They're attacking the border, but why? Have we committed a breach?"

Jaha thought for a moment before responding, "I don't believe so, no."

"Clarke, there's no reasoning with them," Abby began.

"Obviously there is, since we signed accords with them. Have we sent an emissary to enquire about that attacks? Maybe it isn't Terre d'Déformée at all, but someone else," Clarke said. She was nervous to talk at all. Relations with their neighbors was never a topic she excelled at, but she couldn't take the bickering anymore.

"That's a great idea, Princess Clarke," Jaha said after a moment of silence.

"Yes, but hadn't we done that already?" Kane said. Clarke bit her lip to keep from shouting at him. Why couldn't he ever take her seriously?

"No, because _you_ said we couldn't spare the man-power for an envoy," Abby said, and took Clarke's hand. "But I'm making the executive decision here and now. Thelonius, send out an envoy at first light for Terre d'Déformée. We'll get to the bottom of this before further action."

Clarke felt aglow on the inside. Finally, _finally_ she had said something that might just help. Soon thereafter, the council disbanded and Clarke was set free to do as she wished with the rest of her day. Kane left in a huff, as usual, and Jaha smiled kindly at Clarke before taking his exit. Even the scribe filtered out, rolling up the parchment with the instructions and documentation for the envoy before handing it to the queen with a bow. Abby took it, and bid the scribe leave before turning to Clarke.

"Good job today, sweet. I don't say it enough, but I really am proud of you," Abby said and gave Clarke a hug and kissed her forehead before going to take care of more mundane business.

As Octavia and Clarke were taking the back staircases to her chambers Clarke couldn't stop smiling. They rounded a bend in the hall and Clarke dove into a small alcove where a bust of a King long-dead was placed. She immediately started jumping up and down.

"There listened to me, they actually listened," Clarke said, grinning.

"Great job in there today, Clarke. It was great to see you stand up to the Commander," Octavia said and squeezed Clarke's hand.

"Thanks," Clarke said. "It just feels good to actually _do_ something for once. I feel so superfluous in council meetings." Then, she took a deep breath, smoothed her skirts and tried to calm herself. She was a princess. When she became Queen, it would be a regular thing for her decisions to be law with the council, so she'd best act like it.

Clarke smiled at the guards in the hall before entering her solar and Octavia shut the door securely behind them.

"Well, what do you want to do for the rest of the day? I could get your paints and we can go into the garden. I don't think there's anything else for us that we have to do," Octavia said.

"That would be great, Octavia, but maybe tomorrow," Clarke said. "Today, I'm going to see my people."

Octavia grinned after a moment, realizing what she meant. "I'll go get your cloak."

"Do I have to go?" Bellamy said as he followed Finn through the inner keep and toward the gate.

"Most of the other Guardsmen and Cadets think you're a snob because you never spend any time with them on your days off," Finn said, glancing back at Bellamy. Finn looked strange in plainclothes, like he had been born for the Guards' uniform. But they weren't allowed to wear the sigil of the Griffins beyond the keep's walls unless on official business, so they were resigned to regular clothes. Bellamy liked the feel of the soft linen shirt with a wool cloak overtop, but he was still growing accustomed to the richer fabrics afforded by Guardsman pay.

"Yeah, well, let them think whatever. I've got better things to do," Bellamy said, counting the days until he could see his sister again. He never showed it around anyone else, but he was almost grateful now for what happened to Octavia. Out on the streets, regular meals had been scarce, and though Bellamy did whatever odd jobs he could find, money was always an issue. Worn clothes and empty bellies were the norm. But in the keep, Octavia had clean, new clothes every day and square meals for breakfast, dinner, and supper. Hell, she even had a friend besides Bellamy.

As much as he may hate the snobbish Killer Princess, Octavia adored the golden-haired girl, talking about Clarke this and Clarke that during their afternoons together. He tried not to be jealous. The bond between him and Octavia was stronger than anything his sister and the useless monarch shared. Having another girl to talk to was good for her, so Bellamy swallowed his well-founded prejudice against the royals and left Octavia in the service of Princess Clarke.

Finn whistled as they walked down the hard-packed dirt road into the center of the city. Wooden buildings surrounded them on every side, blacksmiths, taverns, booksellers, seamstresses, all the makings of a city filled with thousands. Sounds bounced back and forth in the crowded streets, birds chirping, storekeepers shouting, people muttering. It was hard to focus at the best of times, but now it was overwhelming after being out of it for so long. Not to mention the smell. People emptied their chamber pots out the window, often leading to excrement being dropped on people's heads and into the streets, leading to a cloud of stink that permeated the entire city.

"You don't have better things to do today," Finn said, grinning at Bellamy. "'S not your afternoon off, it's _our_ afternoon off, the whole 100th regiment."

Bellamy tucked his fingers beneath the leather of his sword-belt, surreptitiously checking if his coin purse was still there. As they got further and further into the city proper, more people were milling around. Stalls were set up on the edges of the street, their owners hawking goods. Citizens walked around, barely paying attention to their surroundings as they went about their business. Bellamy had never worried about cutpurses because he'd never had money before. Now, he couldn't stop checking. "I still don't understand why I couldn't have taken this as another time to see Octavia instead of spending time with a bunch of sweaty, drunken Guards."

Finn help up two fingers. "Two reasons. First, when the whole regiment gets a day off, they go out for drinks. You want to blend in and not have people question what you're doing? Then you have to do this. I'm willing to cover for you normally, but not doing this would be a stupid risk. The men would notice and start asking questions. Before you know it, Shumway would realize you have other things on your mind than protecting the royal family and kick you out of the Guard before you could blink."

"I still don't understand why Octavia being a criminal within the keep is such a big deal anyway. Plenty of men in the Guard were criminals," Bellamy said, sidestepping a puddle in the road.

"It's not the fact she's a criminal that's the issue. It's that she's in the keep. Having a girl outside the wall is no issue, but within the keep, your mind is supposed to be focused on your assignment, not your sister," Finn said. Bellamy sighed. "Secondly, she does have other duties to attend to if she wants to keep the spot she's in, like serving the Princess and doing what needs to be done. There was a council meeting today; Octavia had to be there, not spending the afternoon with you."

"Fine," Bellamy said. "But that doesn't mean I have to enjoy myself."

Finn grinned, winking at a pretty girl carrying a basket of fruit as she walked by. "Then don't. I for one, love getting out in the city."

Bellamy groaned.

Was it weird that he had gotten used to the clean, almost floral scented air of the keep, especially that of the Princess's chambers, so much so that now, returning to where he had grown up, filled him with revulsion? The air was getting to his head now, the scent of shit and unwashed bodies almost making him gag. Had he really been gone that long?

"Here we are," Finn said and wove between the masses and into the door of a bar called _The Station_. Bellamy followed him in. The interior was dark, windows covered in a thick layer of dirt and grease. Behind the bar, a busty black-haired barmaid twirled around, getting pint after pint of beer, sometimes stopping to pour something a little stronger or to bring food to one of the men sitting at the counter. Thrushes crunched beneath his feet, and Bellamy didn't want to think about the vomit beneath his boots. He had worked at a tavern before, and knew how disgusting they could be.

At a corner table sat a bunch of Guardsmen from the keep, all of whom Bellamy barely recognized. There was Pearson and Carlson, the two other Cadets promoted with him. He gave them nods, which they returned.

"Collins, you finally decided to show," a man from the middle of the table called.

"Of course I showed," Finn said, taking someone's cup and took a deep swig of beer. "I just had to drag this stick-in-the-mud along."

"Cadets, always so fucking uptight," the man responded, and it wasn't until Bellamy looked closer that he saw it was Guardsman Dodds, much drunker than last he'd seen him. "Well c'mon let's get everyone some drinks. Hey, _Rhysa how about some drinks?!_"

The black-haired barmaid yelled something indecipherable back and moments later, emerged from behind the bar with a platter filled with pints of beer. All the other Guards cheered, but Bellamy felt a little sick. He'd only been drunk once, and had woken up covered in his own vomit and sporting a black eye. Octavia had told him he'd been in a fight, and he had no desire to repeat the experience.

He sat there taking small sips of his drink, hating the hoppy, yeasty taste of the beer on his tongue as he watched his fellow Guardsmen grow sloppier and drunker with every passing moment. Hours dragged, and Bellamy noticed the light dimming, assuming the sun at set. It was only when someone mentioned prostitutes and a "_Hell yes!_" emerged from the mass of men that Bellamy decided it would be a good time for him to make his exit. He had come, shared a drink—or not, but the rest were far too gone to notice that his cup was still mostly full—and now he could go. Bellamy looked around for Finn, hoping to convince his roommate to leave with him, but he was nowhere to be seen. Maybe Finn had already left and Bellamy hadn't noticed. Or maybe he was passed out under the table. Either way, he decided not to wait and left _The Station_ alone.

Being back in Coeur d'Arc made him nostalgic, and in a fit of spontaneity, Bellamy decided he would walk by his old house where he had lived with his parents until just after Octavia had been born. There were fewer people out and about now that the sun had sunk below the horizon and he was able to quickly navigate the twists and turns of the city. He tried to ignore groping couples in alleyways and distant screams. They weren't his problem, not right now. He had taken to guarding quickly, and it was hard to turn it off.

Bellamy turned a corner and saw the sagging front of his old home. The door hung off its hinges, shutters on the windows rotted away. He didn't bother going inside, knew everything had been looted long ago. But even then, looking at the face of his house brought back memories of laughing while his mother, Aurora bouncing him on her knees before dinner or him watching her mend one of his father's shirts before he had left for good. He swallowed thickly and made a conscious decision to walk quickly away, rubbing at his eyes until he saw stars. It had been years since his father left, and each time he thought of that bastard, it still brought tears to his eyes. How could he have left him? His mother? Octavia? She had just been a _baby_ for God's sake.

It was then, with his hands over his eyes that he ran into a mass of children waiting outside one storefront. A little boy began crying when Bellamy had accidentally knocked him to the ground.

"Hey, wait your turn!" a little girl said, glaring up at Bellamy with a gap-toothed scowl on her face. A few other children of varying ages were all clustered there too, but most of them wouldn't even look at Bellamy and instead clustered toward the wall, keeping their eyes to the ground.

Bellamy crouched to help the crying child up, and pulled a handkerchief from his coin purse, rubbing at the dirt on his face. "Hey, I'm sorry. It'll be okay, don't cry."

The little boy sniffled and looked at Bellamy with watery blue eyes. He couldn't have been more than five years old. "That hurt."

"I know, and I'm sorry. Do you think you're going to be okay?" Bellamy said, sitting on the ground to be on the child's level. It was what had always worked with Octavia.

The boy nodded and Bellamy ruffled his hair, unable to stop the smile that spread across his face. He had been the one to take care of Octavia when she was little, and he had kind of missed it. Once he was certain the little guy would be okay, he turned to the girl whose glare was burning holes in the back of his head.

"What do you mean, wait my turn?" Bellamy asked, wondering why a bunch of children were here instead of in their beds.

"I mean wait your turn. We've been here all day," the girl crossed her arms. He tried not to smile. Bellamy had a feeling this little spitfire wouldn't like being laughed at.

"Waiting for what?"

Her blue eyes widened as if she couldn't believe Bellamy didn't already know. "The Giver."

Bellamy couldn't believe it. Of course he'd heard of the Giver. Everyone who lived in the slums had. The hooded woman who came and gave out food and medical care to those who needed it before disappearing was famous. Octavia said she'd been given an apple once, but as it was nowhere to be seen, Bellamy hadn't really believed her. Besides, being given things wouldn't make your life better. You had to work at it. But still, he had always halfway wondered who could have so much that they could give freely without waiting for so much as a thanks. "The Giver is in there?"

"Yes," the girl nodded. "Reese got sick, and the Giver went in to help. She said she'd give us some food as soon as she was done, which could be any _second_ now. So wait your turn."

Bellamy was about to say something else when the door creaked open and a small figure darted out. The Giver was short, her head would maybe be level with his chest, but there wasn't much else he could garner about her. She wore a thick black cloak with the hood pulled far over her face, leaving it shrouded in darkness. Not even had the door closed than the children swarmed the Giver.

"Don't worry, there's enough for everyone," the Giver said, half-laughing as the children tugged at the hem of her dress. Bellamy paused for a moment. He recognized that voice. Carefully, he stood, brushing off his woolen cloak and stepping further in the alleyway where he was out of sight of the woman. A few minutes passed and soon the children were scattering, taking loaves of bread and hunks of cheese with them. The little boy who had fallen started to run away with his loot—a bag filled with apples and a large piece of salt beef—but turned and made his way to Bellamy. He held out the handkerchief Bellamy had given him.

"Thank you for helping me up," the boy said simply, and scurried away. He smiled, and tucked the handkerchief back into his purse. Bellamy loved kids, the simplicity of them, how tenacious and honest they were. Even now, when Bellamy knew they were all probably starving, each child only took their fair share before running back home. Soon, the Giver's bag was empty and she began to turn down the alley, going the opposite direction. Curious, he walked quickly behind her, taking silent steps like he had learned in basic training until he was close enough to grab the Giver's arm and flip down her hood.

"_Hey!"_ the Giver said, moving to pull her hood back up, but not before Bellamy caught an eyeful of the long golden hair tucked beneath the black wool. "What do you think you're doing?"

"You—you're the—what?" Bellamy tried to make sense of all he was seeing. The indignant blue eyes of the one and only Princess Clarke Griffin, first of her name and next in line to the throne of Arc, glared at him. The Princess pulled up her hood, looking back and forth to see if anyone else had seen.

"Are you _insane_? Someone could have seen," the princess said, making sure all of her hair was tucked in.

Everything was still processing in his brain until he finally said, "Am _I _insane? You—you're the Giver!"

"Yes, I know," Clarke said. "Were you going to let me go any time soon?"

Bellamy hadn't realized he was still grasping her wrist, and let go as if she were on fire.

"I can't believe it," Bellamy said, shaking his head. "Snobby Killer Princess is the Giver."

"We've established that already. Now are you going to let me get back, or are you going to stand there with your mouth open like an idiot all night?" Clarke said.

The idea that the Princess, who had all the power in the world to help everyone here from the keep, but instead let her people starve in the streets and be treated like animals, was the Giver blew his mind. How could someone like that willingly go out and help sick children and give out food? No regular person would go out in the middle of the night and help strangers who had done nothing for them. People were too selfish for that.

Night. It was night. The Princess was here, in Coeur d'Arc, alone in the middle of the night.

"Are you _crazy_?" Bellamy said, looking around, assuming assassins would be pouring off every rooftop.

Clarke let out an exasperated sigh. "No, but I think you may be. What is your problem, Bellamy?"

"You are the Princess, alone on the streets in the middle of the night. You could have been killed, or robbed, or…" he didn't want to think about her being taken by the likes of the men he had been at the bar with. It wasn't hard to imagine them taking advantage of a woman alone at night.

"I'm fine, but I won't be if you don't let me get back soon," Clarke said simply.

"Alright, let's go." Bellamy put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Hey, wait," Clarke stepped away from him. "I didn't say anything about you coming back _with_ me."

"You are a woman walking alone at night in Coeur d'Arc, not only that, but the Crown Princess. I'm escorting you back to the keep, only a complete bastard wouldn't," Bellamy said simply. Plus, Octavia would kill him if anything happened to her friend.

Clarke looked at him, face unreadable in the shadows of her hood. "Fine, but we need to take the secret way back so no one else finds out."

"Lead the way," Bellamy said, and began trailing the Princess. They walked quickly, and Bellamy stayed on guard, watching to make sure they weren't being followed. His mind was still racing with all he had learned. If someone had told him two weeks ago he'd respect Princess Clarke, he'd have called them a liar. But now, watching Clarke slip through side streets and alleyways as if she had been born to do this, to help people without asking for anything in return, Bellamy couldn't help but let grudging respect settle over his heart, knowing that Octavia was right. And that maybe, after all he had thought about royalty, there were still ones who cared.

* * *

**A/n: Hello everyone! Thanks for all the wonderful support, firstly, and secondly, let me apologize for the long gap between chapters. My beta got really busy and yet was still able to find time to beta this chapter for me. Bless her soul. You rock Fish Wishes! Anyway, hopefully you all enjoyed. Things are starting pick up now, and I hope to continue updating this pretty regularly, though school starts really soon, so that will be a concern. Please let me know what you're thinking about this story. Every comment I get gives me more motivation to write.**

**Love always**

**Bliss**


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